“Could it have been Merodie Davies?”
“That was my first guess, but no. Not a chance. Merodie had played softball that evening. Afterward she and her teammates closed down Dimmer’s, then went to the house of one of them named”—Sochacki shut his eyes again—“Vonnie Lou Jefferson. Merodie stayed the night. Left at nine the next morning. By then Becker had been dead for at least six hours.”
“What about the girl?”
“What girl?”
“Merodie’s daughter?”
From the expression on his face, I gathered that Sochacki had no idea what I was talking about.
“Merodie Davies had a daughter living with her at the time Becker was killed,” I said. “She must have been about four years old.”
Sochacki shook his head. “There was no daughter. Merodie and Becker lived alone.”
“Are you sure?”
“I was a very good investigator, Mr. McKenzie. I would have noticed a four-year-old girl.”
Twenty minutes later I was standing in front of the counter at the Anoka County Correctional Facility. The woman on the other side of the inch-thick bulletproof glass partition was soft and doughy; she looked like someone Barbara Anderson might beat up for exercise.
“Merodie Davies,” I said, repeating the name for the fifth time.
“Are you her lawyer?”
“I work for her lawyer.” To prove it, I slipped the letter G. K. had given me from my pocket. The attendant couldn’t even be bothered to read it.
“You aren’t her lawyer, you don’t get to see her.”
“Why not? It’s visiting hours.”
“She’s in isolation.”
“For what?”
“Are you her lawyer?”
“No, but. . .”
The attendant turned her back to the glass partition. Suddenly, I wasn’t there anymore.
I called G. K. on my cell, but she wasn’t available. I left her a message: “Better check on Merodie.”
Sitting idle in Priscilla St. Ana’s concrete driveway was her elegant black four-door Saab. In the driveway across the street were a silver BMW convertible and a Lexus. Compared to them, my world-weary Jeep Cherokee looked like refuse someone had abandoned at the curb. No doubt the recyclables people would be around at any moment to cart it away. I longed for my Audi even as I admonished myself for the thought. Damn, McKenzie. When did you become so shallow? ‘Course, if I could talk Sochacki into selling me the Mustang, I wouldn’t care what anyone thought.
The maid, Caroline, met me at the door. This time she allowed me to wait in the foyer while she summoned her employer.
Cilia’s heels made a loud tapping sound on her tile floor as she approached, and for a moment I wondered if she was going to or coming from a business meeting, or if she always dressed so exquisitely around the house. She was wearing a butter-colored dress under a matching jacket. The skirt on the dress was shorter than most high schools would allow.
A looker, Michael Piotrowski had said.
She was a beauty, said Detective Sochacki.
“My goodness, Mr. McKenzie, what happened to your face?” Cilia asked.
“I ran into a door,” I told her.
“A door?”
“A car door.”
“Did it hurt?”
A silly question, I thought.
“I’ve been hurt worse playing hockey,” I said.
Cilia nodded, but I don’t think she believed me any more than Sochacki had.
“What can I do for you?” she asked.
“Has the Anoka County Sheriff’s Department contacted you yet?”
“Have you come all this way to ask that again?”
“Among other things.”
“The answer is no. I have not spoken with anyone from the sheriff’s department. Why would I?”
“The check.”
“Why is the check so important?”
“It proves that someone was in the house other than Merodie when Eli Jefferson was killed.”
“Apparently, the authorities haven’t accorded it nearly as much importance as you have.”
“Apparently.”
“There’s something else you wish to inquire about?” Cilia asked.
“When last we spoke, you explained how you came to take custody of Merodie’s daughter.”
“Yes.”
“You took charge of Silk after Brian Becker was killed.”
“Yes.”
“According to my information, Silk was not living with Merodie when Becker died.”
“No, she was here. Or rather she was with me.”
“Imagine my confusion.”
Cilia smiled, and for the first time I realized that there was no joy in it. Nor did it ever change. Cilia could be looking at a sunset or a plate of mashed potatoes or me—her smile was always the same.
“Silk would stay overnight with me on the evenings that Merodie played softball with her friends. It was my understanding that having a four-year-old daughter to care for cramped Merodie’s—style, is that the correct word?”
“No, but it’s close enough. So Silk was already with you when Becker died?”
“Yes. She was safe in my home in Andover.”
“You’re not a natural blonde, are you, Cilia?”
“McKenzie. What an impertinent question.”
